


Curiosity

by trustingHim17



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-17
Updated: 2021-03-18
Packaged: 2021-03-25 16:33:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30091956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trustingHim17/pseuds/trustingHim17
Summary: Some things simply cannot be deduced, but does Watson really want to supply the answers Holmes is seeking? Watson's pov of Pieces
Kudos: 8





	1. Chapter 1

“Mrs. Hudson!”

I winced at the bellow, shutting the door behind us. “Really, Holmes. You do not have to scream for her as soon as we walk through the door.”

He ignored me, of course, and footsteps sounded from Mrs. Hudson’s rooms as I moved around him to reach the stairs.

“There went my quiet evening,” she muttered as she opened the door, the half-serious words just loud enough that I knew she had intended for Holmes to hear them. She flashed a quick smile of greeting. “Welcome back, Doctor,” she said in a normal volume, “Mr. Holmes.”

I smothered a grin, amused at how she could turn a simple greeting into a reprimand. She had paused just long enough between our names as to make Holmes an afterthought. I was welcome. Holmes was loud.

He pretended not to notice. “Some supper, if you would,” he said as he hung up his coat. “Train meals leave something to be desired.”

He kept his back to me, but I knew his own pleasure shone in his gaze when Mrs. Hudson struggled to contain a smile.

“I believe you need to check your watch, Mr. Holmes,” she told him, her indulgence disappearing beneath mock severity. “You are hours late for luncheon and should have eaten supper on the train. Why should I lay out an extra meal?”

I slowly carried my bags up the stairs as he thought about that. He would not repeat himself about the dining car. “Because Watson ate very little at breakfast and skipped luncheon.”

“Holmes!” I called down. “You leave me out of this!” Mrs. Hudson’s laugh rang over Holmes’ amused huff.

“You know I have nothing cooked,” she told him as I reached the landing.

I could not understand Holmes’ reply, but alone in the sitting room, there was no reason to kill my grin. They did this almost every time we returned from a long trip. Holmes would not voice that he had missed being home, so he made a nuisance of himself from the moment we arrived.

I set my larger suitcase aside to take upstairs in a minute and began unpacking my valise, almost as glad as Holmes to be back in London. I liked travelling more than Holmes, but both of us enjoyed a quiet evening near our sitting room fire. No rented room, no matter how lush, could compare with our Baker Street flat, and despite her words, Mrs. Hudson would probably bring up a light meal in a few minutes. She always did, provided she was awake and had the supplies—even if we arrived after midnight. Holmes would follow me up soon enough.

He still had not come upstairs by the time I finished in my bedroom, however, and I rolled my eyes when I realized I could no longer hear them in the entry. Holmes must have followed her towards the kitchen, probably deciding he wanted something specific—whether a true wish or simply another way to be a nuisance only he knew—and he would be up when Mrs. Hudson either scolded him away from her kitchen or agreed to make whatever he was wanting. I wondered when she would pull out the spatula. He did not usually argue with her for this long, and I would never let him hear the end of it if he got himself chased back upstairs again. Perhaps my silence on the train had made him dislike the travel even more than usual.

I reflexively turned away from the door at the thought. I hoped he would not ask me why I had been so quiet. My thoughts were confusing enough swirling in my mind. I doubted I would be able to voice them yet.

_“I will have to disagree with you on that.”_

Ciara’s reply pushed its way forward again, demanding I make a decision. We had been discussing Holmes’ return back in ‘94, and I had voiced the opinion that Holmes would rather I faint than hit him, no matter that it had scared him to have to catch me. She had disagreed, citing a memory of when her father had disappeared for two weeks. He had preferred Fiona’s reaction to his return over their mother’s, and I had wondered what Holmes would say.

Did I want to open that topic? Doing so would invite questions I had avoided thus far.

I still had not made up my mind when Holmes’ footsteps sounded on the stairs, and I looked up when he appeared in the doorway.

“Did she get out the spatula?”

He tried to scowl at me. “Of course not.”

“Shame,” I said shortly, covering my churning thoughts with a wry grin. “That would have been entertaining.”

He made no attempt to hide that he rolled his eyes, and he dropped his bags in his bedroom before returning to the sitting room. Holmes would unpack one thing at a time—usually when he decided he needed something—and silence fell as he joined me in front of the fire.

_“Maybe one day I will ask his preference.”_

The topic had been hounding me since we had left Armagh, plaguing me to decide if that was a conversation I wanted to open. I did not know what he would ask if I did, and that was what made me hesitate.

Did I want to risk him asking something I would rather not answer? He would not always let me avoid a question, but I was curious as to what he would have preferred at the time.

“What is on your mind?” he asked after a minute.

I hesitated before making my choice, at least for the moment. “What do you think the Stewarts are doing?”

Fiona and Ciara Stewart had hired us to track the one sending highly inappropriate and threatening notes since their sister’s death. The culprit had been doing a bit more than sending threatening notes, and the week-long case had forged the beginnings of a friendship between us and several at the observatory where they worked, including the sisters. I had been pleasantly surprised when Holmes had suggested staying slightly longer than the case necessitated as a holiday. That had been an enjoyable few days.

“I do not see any stars” he noted, affecting a glance at the cloudy night sky, “so they are probably doing math. That _is_ what they do all day.”

I grinned. “They do not do math _all_ day.”

“Oh?” He raised an eyebrow at me. “Then what else do they do? Numbers never stopped flying across that room unless Fiona was playing a prank.”

I laughed at the quoted phrase. I had mentioned the numbers continually crossing the room the morning we finished the case, and he had looked at me strangely at the time. Less than an hour with the Stewarts had shown him exactly what I meant.

“I am glad you no longer think me insane,” I replied, “but pranks and math are not all that they did. We had some very interesting discussions while you were chasing clues alone.”

Like the one currently plaguing me. I should _not_ have mentioned that.

“And we had several after the case ended,” he returned, “but almost all of those had something to do with math, stars, or pranks. So my question stands: What else do they do?”

I had to think about it, and I scowled when a smirk twitched his mouth. My scowl faded when his wording registered a moment later.

“You answered your own question. Aside from math, they talk about stars and pranks, among other things.”

He had probably been waiting to see if I would catch it, and he barked one of his quick laughs.

“That still does not answer my original question, however,” he answered, studying me. “What is on your mind?”

“The Stewarts,” I answered honestly enough. “I am glad we spent a few days there. We both needed the holiday.”

I knew _I_ had needed it, though I would never admit as much. Aside from enjoying the extra time with a group I had come to consider friends, I had been attacked our fifth day there. The results had left me tired and sore for the next few days. How I had managed to avoid broken ribs, I had no idea, but no breaks did not mean a lack of injury. My chest was still somewhat painful, though not usually enough to be more than an annoyance.

Holmes hesitated, his gaze flicking out the window again. “It was not horrible,” he finally replied, the words as close to an agreement as he would get. He never enjoyed being outside of this city, but he had appreciated looking through the telescope each evening after the case was over.

He said nothing else, and my thoughts returned to my internal debate.

_“I do not think he expected to have to catch me.”_

Did I want to ask?

Footsteps on the stairs broke the silence a few minutes later, and I looked up as Mrs. Hudson walked towards the table.

“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson,” I said as she set a tray in its place. She smiled at me but tried to glare at Holmes. Their “argument” must still be ongoing, and I decided not to get in the middle, gingerly pulling myself out of my chair to prevent that ache from lancing through my chest. The pain was better than the alternative, but I would avoid that shooting twinge whenever I could.

“Watson?” Holmes asked from behind me, and I cursed myself. I had thought he was looking at Mrs. Hudson.

“Holmes?”

He made no reply, and I glanced back to find him staring at me as he rose to get his own plate.

“What?” I said when he remained quiet. I saw no reason to answer his silent question. He would have to ask outright.

He merely stared at me, and I eventually rolled my eyes, returning to inspecting what Mrs. Hudson had brought. Cold cuts, cheese, and bread sat on the table next to something that was probably a casserole leftover from her own supper…and two pieces of shortbread.

I immediately claimed one, knowing better than to think they would survive Holmes’ reaching the table. His piece would not survive the walk to his chair, and mine would not have either if I did not claim it. Mrs. Hudson laughed on her way out the door, for once seeing what I had done before Holmes did. She nodded an answer to my silent “thank you.”

“Are you going to eat something besides shortbread?” he asked when he joined me at the table. The other piece skipped his plate as I shrugged.

“Probably. Does it matter?”

He frowned but focused on his food. I had been too caught in my thoughts to eat much on the journey from Ireland, but he would not push the topic yet. I had done well at hiding my lack of appetite before that recurring dream had finally halted, and it was only in the last day or so that a different nightly theme had started stealing it again. He had not yet seen enough to say anything.

_“I think he would rather I faint than hit him.”_

Silence reigned as we ate, and I spent the time mulling the question.

Did I want to open the topic?


	2. Chapter 2

“Maybe if you voice it, it will stop bothering you.”

Holmes’ comment broke several hours of silence, and I tore my gaze away from the fire to glance at him.

“Hmm?”

He frowned at me. “You have been brooding all day, and you have nearly voiced it several times before changing your mind. What is bothering you?”

I hesitated but finally shook my head. “Don’t worry about it.” Just because I trusted him now did not mean I wanted to deal with that conversation yet. It could wait a few days—or months—for me to find the right words and prepare for whatever he might ask.

His frown deepened, and he leaned back in his chair, studying me. I ignored him to turn back toward the fire. Perhaps I should go to bed. Today had been a long day of travel after an early morning, and my eyes kept trying to close despite my racing thoughts.

“A conversation,” he announced a minute later. “You are remembering a conversation.” He hesitated, thinking. “Did I say something—?”

“No,” I quickly replied. “Don’t worry about it.”

He released a faint huff, still staring at me, and I knew he was going to be stubborn about this. I would have to decide quickly. Did I want to retreat to my room and hope he did not ask again in the morning, or did I want to let him slowly piece together my curiosity?

_Perhaps I was finally ready to answer some of those questions_.

Yes, but was I ready right _now?_

I resisted the urge to glance at him, knowing he was still studying me. Even if I wanted to put off this conversation, he might have seen too much to let me. He had decided years ago that letting me retreat when something was truly bothering me would only make it worse, and he refused to listen when I did not agree with the notion. That stubbornness had deflected a misunderstanding more than once, but he had no way of knowing that this did not fall into that category.

I might have to let him figure it out, I realized when he continued frowning at me. Without a way of knowing that this was an awkward question instead of a cautious retreat, my silence might cause him more worry than the conversation would cause discomfort.

That might also be easier than having to voice the question myself.

“Watson?”

I sighed. “Figure it out if you can. Otherwise, it will keep until I find the right words.”

He relaxed slightly, still staring at me but no longer as concerned. If there had been a problem, I would not have told him to deduce it.

“It is a recent conversation,” he started, aloud for my benefit. “It would have to be at the observatory, and I was not there. Therefore, one of the Stewarts said something during the case. That also explains why you answered my question the way you did, but the Stewarts are not on your mind so much as what one of them said.”

He was correct so far, of course. There had been very few conversations after the case ended that he did not hear. The way he had found me after the attack on the fifth day had scared him, and he had barely let me out of his sight for the next couple of days. The conversation currently plaguing me had occurred our third day in Armagh.

He paused, searching for another piece, and I settled further into my chair. Even when he was deducing me, I enjoyed listening to his thought process.

“They mentioned the Strand several times,” he continued, “and that entire town has probably read every published case at least once. They might have asked when you were going to publish again, but that would not be disturbing you a week later. That conversation could have led to what had happened after you stopped publishing, however.” He hesitated. “Did they bring up Mary?”

Mary had come up a couple of times, but what he was truly asking was if Mary was the topic that I was struggling to voice.

“No.”

“Then…” he trailed off, and I knew what he was thinking. His return and my own struggles were the only other difficult topics from after I stopped publishing, and those were closely intertwined.

“The Stewarts’ father is a fisherman,” I finally told him, knowing the story would give him the final piece. “He once went missing after a storm and did not return for two weeks. Fiona colored his eye. Their mother fainted.”

He did not answer immediately, perhaps ensuring that his deduction was correct, that I was truly allowing this topic.

“Their father preferred Fiona’s reaction over their mother’s,” he answered, and I knew he realized my own question. “I would agree with him.”

“Why?” I would have thought he would choose the route that did not leave him with a colored eye.

“Why do you think I would choose otherwise?”

I groped for an answer. “A bruised eye takes over a week to heal,” I said after a long moment, “and is a ‘confounded nuisance’ in the meantime, but I woke up in less than a minute.”

He twitched a grin at the quoted words, but he made no comment. “There is more to it,” he answered instead, his red ears belying the steady words. “Waking quickly did not negate what caused you to faint.”

“I did not think you would want to be negated.”

The reply was automatic, a reflexive redirection born of years of avoiding the topic, and he simply stared at me, waiting. I eventually sighed, dropping the façade I had unconsciously lifted. I knew what he meant—that the anger that would make me hit him was more quickly resolved than the deeply seated pain that had made me faint—but that did not mean I would voice as much even now.

That silence acknowledgement opened the door for his questions, however, and he took the opportunity, as I had known he would.

“Why did you faint?” he asked quietly.

“Because I thought you were dead.”

He did not answer for a moment, and I wondered which meaning he had grasped. I had either replied that the shock of seeing him alive after thinking him dead for so long had made me faint, or…

“You thought you were seeing a ghost?”

Neither of us believed in people coming back after they were dead, but one did not need the spirit of the deceased to be haunted. Holmes and Mary had haunted me continually in those long months, and I had not considered it possible that he was truly standing in front of me.

I shook my head. “I thought you were a hallucination at first, then a dream.”

Sorrow shadowed his gaze. “Those were common.”

His words were a statement, a deduction, not a question, but I nodded anyway.

“How common?”

Some days I had spent more time in the past than the present, but I would not say as much. My silence was answer enough.

“What about before that?” he asked, the quiet words and the regret in his eyes announcing that he knew what I did not say. “Did you not recognize me on the street? I thought you had—you and Mary usually saw through my disguises—but you helped gather my books and kept walking without a word.”

I hesitated. How could I admit that I had not been present for that interaction?

“Watson?”

“When did I see you on the street?”

Understanding mixed with the regret and sadness. “You do not remember it, do you?” This was quickly becoming an interview instead of a discussion, but perhaps that was for the better. I would never be able to discuss most of this.

I shook my head. “You mentioned it in my consulting room as well. All I could do was move the topic along.”

“How often did you lose memories?”

Far more frequently than I would ever voice, and I could not prevent my gaze from drifting away from him.

“That was…not the first time,” I admitted quietly. “I learned to hide it.”

_“Why_ did you lose memories?” Holmes had lost hours to cocaine over the years, but though I could admit to myself that I had been tempted, he knew that had not been my problem.

“Can you think of two things at the same time?” I answered. “I had other things on my mind.”

“Like?”

I could not quell another sigh, and I picked at a loose thread as an excuse not to look up. I had hidden this for too long to want to see the understanding in his gaze. What would change with this knowledge?

“I believe I was fighting off a regression on the way home that afternoon,” I finally said, not trying to raise the words above their natural murmur. “The maid opened the door just before I would have let it hit.”

I had already allowed the memories by the time the maid opened the door, but I had not yet sunk so deep as to not come back at the sound. Given a few more seconds, Holmes would have walked into the room to find me staring through my desk, oblivious to his presence. As he did not know about the regressions at the time, there was no way of knowing what he would have done when I did not answer him—or what _I_ would have done when I snapped out of a memory to find my old friend standing in front of me.

“A regression?” he repeated immediately, and the confusion that leaked into the words revealed he did not fully understand. He thought regressions were only war memories. I debated for only a moment before answering.

“Regressions can be any memory, Holmes. Any person, any place, any time, for any reason. The inquest had reminded me of you.”

His eye twitched, revealing he had smothered a flinch, and he readjusted in his chair. He opened his mouth, then closed it, and his eventual question was barely audible.

“Switzerland?”

“And cases,” I replied with a nod, deciding not to ask what about my words had affected him so. “Various memories. I saw one of the Irregulars on the way to the inquest, and I thought you would have loved the Adair case, would have tried to steal my report to solve it before the Yard. That brought up previous cases that you _had_ solved before the Yard, and…”

I trailed off. Did I want to voice that? He did not yet know the immediate aftermath of the falls.

“And?”

“And regret that you would not solve this one,” I finished hesitantly. He raised an eyebrow, not quite grasping my meaning, but that was fine with me. I did not clarify.

“When did you start losing memories?” he asked after a moment.

I waved my hand in a _continue_ motion. His question was too broad.

“On a regular basis,” he added.

“After the funerals.”

He stared at me, probably seeing more of my thoughts than I wanted, and I fought to raise my barriers high enough to make him ask aloud instead of reading my thoughts. I could control how much he learned in my spoken answers, but I could not control his deductions.

“What about at all?”

I made no answer. Silence was better than the obvious replies of illnesses over the years or the regressions I had hidden when we first started sharing rooms, and I would not volunteer the answer he was seeking. He would have to be more direct, and I hoped he would not.

“Do you remember the falls?”

I nodded, covering the flash of grief at the memory. Was he going to continue?

“The journey home?”

He was. I braced myself as I nodded again. There was no need to specify that I only remembered parts of it.

“The trials?”

Surprise made me glance at him. “What trials?” What would I remember about the Moriarty trials? Had there been another set of trials at the time?

“Moriarty’s men,” he answered, watching me. “Lestrade’s telegram said he had caught over a dozen. With access to my reference materials, you would have been a key witness. Did you testify?”

“I—no. I did not.” It was easier to answer the direct question than explain that I had not known about the trials until months after the sentencing. Lestrade had never mentioned that they had wanted me to testify.

Holmes shifted again, falling into his thinking position as he studied me.

“Why not?”

No. I would not answer that, would not announce those long, hollow months in which I remembered far too many of my own thoughts and almost nothing of the real world. He would have to figure it out another way.

Silence reigned for a long moment as he waited, but I could not even maintain eye contact, though I forced myself not to leave the room. While I hoped he would not, he had enough to figure it out soon enough; I would only prolong this if I left now.

He eventually tried a different tactic as a thought crossed his face, probably a memory, based on his next words.

“What would Mycroft have said if I had been able to ask for a report on you right away?”

He had undoubtedly already guessed. “That Mary had asked to borrow money from him,” I said bluntly, “and one of my colleagues had taken my practice.”

Grief appeared, adding to the shadows caused by the flickering firelight.

“How long were you ill?”

I had never developed a fever, but brain fever did not always exhibit physical symptoms. I had not been more than peripherally aware of the real world for months.

“My first memory is over three months later.” My first complete memory was another week or two after that, but I would not volunteer as much.

That grief strengthened and mixed with heavy remorse, and I knew he was blaming himself. I had barely made it to London, barely remembered making sure Mrs. Hudson knew what had happened before my awareness of the world had faded away. Unable to handle the knowledge that I had caused his death, I had retreated from everything and everyone. Only Mary’s presence had given me a reason to return.

It was hardly his fault that I had not been strong enough to face his death, but the words to counter the guilt in his eyes refused to come. He did not push the topic, probably noticing my hesitance.

“Why did you take so long to move back to Baker Street?”

So…long? I had moved back much faster than I had expected, solely due to his repeated invitations.

My confusion refused to form into words, and he let the silence stretch before trying again. “You did not believe me when I said I wanted you to move back. Why?”

“You tolerate many things,” I replied, “but not even you could want someone back that had proven himself untrustworthy.”

“You thought I did not trust you?”

“I knew you could not.” I could see he did not understand, and I forced myself to continue, to lift at least some of the unwarranted guilt in his eyes. If I was going to voice it, I wanted him to know the difference between thinking and knowing. This was not something he could have changed with words even if I would have allowed this conversation so many years ago—even if _he_ would have allowed it. “Why would you trust someone who had abandoned you?”

“You did not abandon me,” he protested. “I sent you away.”

“I did not know that—” I cut the thought short, deciding not to admit that the knowledge would have changed little. Had changed little. “I left you at the end of a dead-end path, Holmes, when I knew you were in danger, then I had three years to think about what I should have done differently. I would not force my presence or monopolize your time. You were alive. That was enough.”

That was more than I ever would have hoped. I would not risk becoming a nuisance due to my desire to spend time with him. Pushing him into telling me to go away for good would have been worse than losing him at the falls. Better to have a small amount of time than none at all.

“How was accepting a repeated invitation forcing your presence?”

I could not decide how to put my thoughts into words. “You let me believe you were dead for _three years,”_ I replied after nearly a minute. “You obviously did not need me, probably only kept me around for convenience, and I was not the same person you had left behind in Switzerland. No matter my own preference, I would not risk you growing tired of me. I was not the greatest company.” I still was not, at times, but I would not say that, either.

He stared at me for a long moment, unable to cover the regret and sadness in his gaze. I would have to stop this conversation soon, if only to avoid hurting him. Just as I blamed myself for Switzerland, for leaving him when he needed me, so he would blame himself for the path I had traveled after Mary’s death. He had more than once expressed irritation that he had not made it for the funeral, and I knew he thought that returning sooner might have prevented me from sinking so deeply.

If the aftermath of the falls was any indication, he was only partially right.

“Why would I grow tired of you?”

“Why do you throw out newspapers after you have transferred their information to your indices?” I returned, shrugging away my embarrassment at voicing my thoughts from so long ago—and hoping it covered how many of the ideas still occasionally applied to the present. “When something is no longer useful, needed, we dispose of it. You could not trust me after I had abandoned you, you would have no issue solving your cases without my help, and you had already done perfectly well without me for the last three years, four if we count that you stopped asking for our help well before Switzerland. When I added my frequent regressions, I figured it was only a matter of time before you realized that the threat I had become outweighed the few uses I possessed.”

“You expected me to make you leave?”

So much so that I had not truly been surprised when he finally did. I had kept a contingency plan ready for the first several months after moving back—where I would go, how I would get there—but I had let that plan lapse just before the argument that had left me without a home for four days. I had never done so again. Even now, when I trusted him and felt sure he would not want me to move out, I still had a plan in place for if he did.

I saw no reason to voice any of that, however, and I made no answer.

“You do not still expect it.”

He should know better than to ask that. I would hardly have said so much if I did not trust him with the knowledge, but discussing the past and discussing the present were two very different things. I was not yet ready to discuss the present.

He saw the answer in my face, and some of the tension left his shoulders as he opened his mouth to ask another question, but I was done. He did not need to know all of this, and I knew better than to think he would let me avoid a question entirely. I had answered enough for tonight—had already said much more than I had intended—and I painfully readjusted in my chair, trying to decide how to change the topic.

His next question cut off as he frowned at me. I had apparently failed to smother my flinch at the pain spiking through my chest, but I could not regret the failure too much. It provided my opening.

“Why are you still hurting?” he asked sharply.

I waved him off. “Ribs were not designed to move like that, Holmes. I will be sore for a while.” I hesitated, weighing my decision. “Last question.” This interview had already lasted over an hour, with our respective pauses and my occasional silences when I refused to answer, but I could not bring myself to simply get up and leave the room.

He changed what he had been about to ask, fidgeting in his chair as he tried to find the words. “Did you—Lestrade said—” He studied me for a moment, then nearly blurted his question. “Would you have done anything?”

I immediately understood what he meant, suddenly wishing I _had_ left the room. By the time he returned, I had not been eating or sleeping well for weeks, and I was well down a path that, if continued, had only one possible ending. I had not wanted him to ask this, but I could not ignore the question now. Refusing to answer would be akin to a lie, one that would do neither of us any good; I knew what conclusion he would draw without my response. I struggled for a reply.

“I was days from leaving London,” I slowly acknowledged, my voice quiet, “with or without the house sold, and I probably would have gone somewhere rural, some place the locals did not recognize me. I…do not think you would have ever found me if I had left, but no, I would not have _done_ anything.” Even in my lowest moments, such a plan had never tempted me, but it was only a matter of time before regression or illness finished what I would not. I could not always confine myself to my house or my office before the memories took over, and more than one regression had sent me wandering the streets.

Relief at my words mixed with the regret and sorrow still in his gaze, but he did not try to ask another question. If he would not press conversation, I had no reason to leave the room, and I returned my attention to the fire, no longer interested in sleep. My dreams the last few nights had been bad enough, but after dredging up so many memories, I knew what I would see tonight. I would rather stare into the fire until morning than feel the spray of the falls again.

He noticed my gaze flick toward a spot above the mantle, and a frown twitched his mouth. I spoke up before he could comment.

“Go to bed, Holmes. I’ll follow you soon enough.”

He huffed at me—probably realizing that “soon enough” and “tomorrow night” were roughly equivalent—but he left the room. I heard him dragging his bags around before I moved to the settee, and silence fell after a few minutes. I relaxed into the cushion, hearing his breathing deepen in sleep as I stared into the flames.

I do not remember falling asleep, but I do remember my dreams consisting of more music than memories. Light, peaceful notes drifted as if through an open window, taking over my corrupted mind to gently push the louder memories aside. My one nightmare faded before it truly began.

He denied involvement the next morning, and I decided not to tell him that I had woken before he did.

How else would he have fallen asleep in his chair, violin in hand?

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are always greatly appreciated! :)


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